


Shower Head

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drabble, Hangover, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Tension, like so much oml
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: Alexander's shower is broken. Jefferson is hung over.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A little drabble that I've already posted on tumblr. This is only barely edited so please be kind.   
> Also! I'm hoping to get the first chapter of my next big Jamilton fic to y'all real so, so keep an eye out for it!

Hamilton hammers the door three times before giving his abused knuckles a break, feeling as though he done a sufficient job in alerting his presence to the person on the other side. He digs his bare toes into the carpet and waits. Why the halls of this supposedly five star hotel are carpeted, he has no clue, he spent most of his morning trying to decide if it makes the place luxurious or tacky. Currently he’s going with luxurious because it’s rounding the uglier half of twenty degrees outside his frosted window and he hates to think of what icy hardwood might feel.

A long stretch of silence greets him as he hovers in front of room 789, every second passing only frustrates him further. So he wraps the arm around his middle tighter and pound the sleek, dark stained wood with side of his fist. 

Finally! Signs of life from the other side, the muffled thump of bare feet and unintelligible grumbling. Alexander shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and squared his shoulders back as the lock clicks and the door is pulled back.

Much quicker than his debate about the flooring choice, Hamilton understands that Jefferson is decidedly not a morning person. It’s already eight and the lumbering, broad shouldered man doesn’t even look showered. His wild hair lacks its usual charisma, flat and matted to his skull on one side, and fraying on the other. Safe to say it seems like his sleep was undisturbed last night, especially if the lines of pillow folds imprinted deep in his cheeks have anything to say on the matter. He squinted blearily over Alexander’s head before dropping his dull gaze down to the shorter man’s face.

Then he reaches back to slam the door.

Alexander is quick to stop it, as well as bruise his foot  by jamming it between the frame and the edge of the speeding door. Sharp stabbing pain blooms through his toes but he manages a strained smile regardless. One that Jefferson returns with an exhausted grimace.

“Morning Mister Secretary!” He makes his voice as sickly sweet and  grating as he can so he can watch the other man squirm in distress. “I was wondering-”

“No” Jefferson cuts in, putting a little more pressure on the door as he does. Like he thinks that will make Alexander remove his foot. Hamilton’s had his foot stuffed in lots of doors before, never quite in such a literal sense though, but he assumes the principles of getting it open are all the same.

“I was wondering” he continues, wriggling back against the bite of the wood. “If I could-’  
“No”

“-come in and-”

_“No”_

“-borrow your shower a moment.”

“Hamilton get off my door mat” he growls.

“Why?!”

“Because it’s eight AM, I’m hung over and you’re annoying me.”

“But my shower is broken” Alexander whines.

Jefferson stops trying to break his foot a moment, gliding a weary hand over his bare chest. Surely the fact that the esteemed Secretary of State sleeps in only a pair of cheap looking sweatpants is not a detail he needs to know, but he tucks the slice of information into the back of his mind regardless.  It’s just a nice thing to know. He files it right next to ‘ _Jefferson looks great without a shirt on”_ . Something he discovered the one and only time Hamilton ever stepped foot in a gym.

Jefferson scratches the underside of his chin lightly. “What’s wrong with your shower?”

He shrugs. “The hot water wasn’t working. So I may or may not have beaten the shower head with one of my shoes until it broke off.”

The taller man blinks down at him, incredulous. “Needless to say my bathroom is flooded at the moment and your room happened to be next door.”

“That-” Jefferson beings slowly, lips working around the words carefully. “Sounds like a perfect example of how not to do things.”

Alexander brushes the comment to the side with a haphazard wave of his hand. “We’re here on business, ergo it’s a business expense.”

The Virginian sighs, running his free hand through the matted half of his hair. “Property damage.” he mutters. “What a very ‘Hamiltonian’ solution to the issue.”

“If by ‘Hamilton” you’re implying an ability to smash through expectations and adversity then, yes, I suppose it was.”

Jefferson scoffs and leans heavy against the doorway, giving Alexander just enough room to wriggle his way through. He crowds himself into the other man’s personal space until he staggers back a step and begrudgingly allow Hamilton access to his room. It’s dark and barely lit. The little sun that peeks through the tightly shut blinds cast pinpricks of light across the floor.

“See, _‘Hamilton_ ’ has always been a synonym for _‘annoying little bastard_ ’ in my book” Jefferson drawls, voice low and slowly and heavy with southern soil, scraping against his vowels as shuts the door with a snap behind the both of them.

Hamilton scoffs “Well, I’ve always found ‘ _Jefferson’_  to be synonymous with _‘flamboyant dickwad_ ’” they’re tried insults, but it’s much too early to be so bitter. “You need to turn on some damn lights.”

Jefferson makes a squeaking sound of protest but Alexander has already flipped up the lightswitch. A burst of pale, cheerful yellow illuminates the space. The small kitchenette where a half drunk glass of orange juice left forgotten on the countertop, and the pile of cloths strut carelessly across the floor.

“Rough night last night, huh?” He asked bemusedly, laying the plastic bag he filled with his toilers on the coffee table a moment so he can adjust his hotel proved, soon to be locked away in his suitcase, robe.   
“Fuck off” Jefferson spits, clapping a hand tightly over his eyes with the hand not balancing him against the wall.

Alexander laughs, because Jefferson misery amuses him, and leans back against the arm of the small loveseat facing the TV. “Awww can Thomas Jefferson not hold his liquor” he croons. “Did you need me to hold back your hair while you puke your guts out?”

“I don’t want your pity.” he snaps. “I want your absence”

Hamilton mocks a look a hurt, jutting out his bottom lip before taking it between his teeth to stifle a giggle. “That’s what you get, a hangover and morning full of regrets.”

“It’s almost be worth it if I could remember some of the fun shit from that night…” Jefferson trails off, rumpling up his hair once more so that the deflated curls fall in his gaunt face.

His statement gives Hamilton pause. “Did you really blackout last night?” he asks, tucking his arms over his front.  
Jefferson peers stonily at him from between his fingers. “Why, did I do something stupid?  
Alexander can’t keep the grin from spreading over his face. Twisted glee curls his lips up in an utterly wicked, villainous grin. “Oh boy, did you ever.”

The taller Secretary groans. “I think I might drown myself in your shower. What did I do?”

“Guess” he goads, cheerily egging him. On he pushes off the sofa and strides towards the kitchen instead.

“Alexander I’m not play this game with you, what did I do?” Jefferson grinds out between his spectacularly white teeth.

Hamilton shakes his head “That’ll ruin the fun though. Come on, guess”

“I hate you so much.” he breaths. Then sighs. “Dear god tell me I didn’t start singing or anything like that”

“Nope. worst.” the little immigrant hops up carefully onto the counter beside the glass. He’s starting to wish he’d thrown on some underwear before leaving his room. He planned to hop right in the shower when he got here, but now it feels like he’s dragging his bare ass over every surface in Jefferson’s room. Pressing his knees together, he ajusts the robe over his thighs and continues to peer tauntingly at the other man

He slumps against the wall and runs his hand over his scruff. “Did I flirt with someone?” he asks dully.  
Hamilton hums, the tip of his tongue poking out from his lips as he does so. “Getting warmer”

“Oh god-” Jefferson chocks. “I kissed someone?!”  
“Yeah you did.”

The man lets another, quite ‘fuck’ slip past his lips before he fixes Alexander with the most threatening look he can manage while hung over at eight in the morning. “Who did I kiss?”

Hamilton shakes his head, smile growing, lips parting cheeky.

Jefferson pushes off the wall, chancing a few shaky steps his way, and Alexander watches with amusement as he does.

“I don’t like this game, just hurry up and tell me” he snaps “unless you actually don’t know shit.”

Most days he would take the obvious challenge but stringing the other man along like this is far more entertaining than he expected.   
“OOooh, definitely know who it is, but wanna see your face when you figure it out” he sneers back.

“Are you always this nauseatingly annoying first thing in the morning, or should consider myself privy to this aspect of your personality.”

Hamilton winks at him wryly. “You should know by now that you’re always the exception, Jefferson.”  
“Was it Madison?” he questions

“Ha! You wish you could be that lucky!”

“Was it Laf?”

Alexander shakes his head. “Try again.”

“Laurens?”

“Disgusting, and no, not him either.”

Jefferson slaps his hand, flat palm against the countertop, dangerously close to Hamilton’s exposed knee. “Damn it Hamilton, this isn’t funny and I’m shit at guessing games.”

“I can tell” he runs his fingers absentmindedly through his hair.

“You know, everything was fine until you showed up.” the nauseated Virginian snaps. “I was going to call off of the conference today and sleep until noon tomorrow like a sane person, but then you show up and give me migraine on top of it all. Now tell me who it was or I’m throwing you out into the hall.  
Alexander dumps his fingers on the countertop gently. “Alright first of all: I’ll like to see you try. Secondly: rude.”

“Hamilton” he warns, scraping his blunt nails against the granite.

“Fine” he moans. “I’ll give you a hand because I do actually plan to go to the conference today so I can’t play twenty questions with you all morning.” A withering look from Jefferson that he pointedly ignored. “Picture this. Eleven forty, at the White House staff approved bar on a Sunday night. A politically amoral, devilishly handsome, and most importantly, fucking wasted Thomas Jefferson has just sloshed his way through his eight beer of the  night. The bar is loud, you can feel the base from the speakers pounding in your chest.” here Hamilton starts tapping out the rhythm of the seemingly endless pop song from the bar that night against the counter with his fist. Jefferson watches him with distant and pursed lips. But more importantly, with intrigue as well. He smirks and continues to hammer out the beat “Befuddled and probably too drunk to see straight by this point, he staggers over to the only available booth in the whole place. Except, this particular booth seems to already be occupied, by one, Secretary of Treasury.”

Jefferson’s eye wax into glassy full moons. “Please tell me you got fired last night” he mutters weakly.

“Nope” Alexander replies, still drumming out the bass of the song now stuck in his head.

“No….” He slumps into the counter, leaning his weight heavy on the one palm and scratches down his head once. He’s appalled and nauseated and Hamilton beams.

“Yeees” he hisses “Oh yes. You slide right in next to me, looking lost, and like you might pass out any second. I think the bar, or maybe it was Washington? Anyway someone must have cut you off because when you realized there was some else in the booth with you you tried to steal my drink, which was hilarious successful by the way. Then, you actually tried to flirt with me.”

The line of Jefferson mouth sores into something ugly, a sickly down turn of the corners of his mouth. “Fuckin’ lier. I don’t care how drunk I was, there’s no way in hell I would- do _that_ \-  to _you_ ”

“Sorry to be the one to break it to you” Hamilton responses softly, leaning in a taunting inches or so. “Guess you’re not as resistant to my beguiling good looks as you thought.”

The Virginian glares back and says nothing, deep brown gaze burrow directly into Alexander’s brain.

“You kept going on about how _beautiful_ I am” he continues. “You wouldn’t shut up about it actually. How beautiful I looked, how beautiful my eyes are, my hair….” he can see it, the way the multitude of colored lights were playing on Jefferson’s skin. Green splashed across his shoulders, electric blue shining through his massive curls, pink highlighting the tops of his angular cheekbones. The thud of the bass is in his chest, vibrations from the speakers making it hard to breath. And Jefferson, better dresses, hovering a handful of breaths away, plush lips forming  complements instead of scowls for once. It’s like he’s back there, in the low lit booth, both of them tucked away as secluded, alone and- “Then you….” Since when has the rhythm he’s been taping matched the frantic pounding of his own heart. Can Jefferson hear it? Hear the way the tempo has changed. He’s far closer now, eyes heavily lidded, soft ragged breaths passing through his parted lips. Suddenly Alexander is warm all over, like someone cranked up his internal thermostat. His own eyelids droop, his tounge darting out to wet his lips. He watches with mild fascination as Jefferson’s eyes follow the movement. Then Jefferson hip bumps into his knee and Hamilton jumps.

His whole face burns. “Ya know this is getting boring so I’m just gonna go take that shower now and get out of your hair so you can sleep or puke or whatever you need to do.” He rattles off quickly, sliding off the counter and quickly maneuvering his way around Jefferson’s towering form. His pulse is thundering in his scarlet ears. That was uncomfortably close. He’s hardly made it four steps when the Secretary calls after him.

“I’d ask you to stay, but I don’t like you.” there’s a weird, trembling edge to his voice that Alexander can’t find it in himself to ignore, especially not when his knees are still shaking from the earlier proximity.

He turns, slowly on his heel to face Jefferson. The man’s still leaning hard on the counter, watching at him, probing him with some guarded look in his tired, sunken eyes. Absentmindedly, Hamilton fiddled with the ties of his robe. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.” he mutters, nibbling at the corner of his lower lip.

“And why would I need to do that?” he asks softly. “You better then anyone should know how I despise you, Alexander. And that kiss-” With trembling arms he pushes himself upright. It seems to take a lot out of him to place one foot squarely in front of the other but he manages and soon he advancing on Hamilton with unsteady feet. Alexander’s heart putters like one of those old car engines. “- It meant nothing.”

“Of course” he replies sweetly. Like a wayward comment he feels himself start to circle Jefferson’s impossible gravity. “We are in fact, political rivals, Jefferson, and I find you loathsome.”

“And I find you obtuse.”

Closer and closer they inch, filling up the shrinking space between them with dizzyingly appreciative looks.

“Arrogant” Alexander breaths.

“Whore’s son” The words fall with obscene grace from Jefferson’s lips. Full, pink, and blooming like rose petals as he curves them around each vowel, each syllable.

“Southern bastard.”

“Power hungry”

“Obnoxious.”

“Narcissistic”

Their foreheads bump together and Alexander makes another quick realization. The Jefferson is one of the few people that actually still looks attractive up close. “ _Asshole_ ” he whispers, eyes heavy, chest weightless.

He feels Jefferson’s next words before he hears them. The faint brush of lips over the corner of his mouth that makes his whole chest heave as all memory of how to breath leaves him.

_“Beautiful.”_

And then he’s kissed. Jefferson’s lips touch down on his as he gasped out the last consonant. Hamilton can still taste the L on the tip of his tongue as the taller man pushes it gently, experimentally into his mouth. He takes it greedily, parting his lips wide and moaning feebly. Numbly, he reaches up to take hold of him, to grab him tight and pull him closer, get Jefferson as close as he can. His fingers scrambled across his stomach, his chest, seeking out something he can cling to to stop the room from swaying. Palms slide up his arms and over his shoulders, until he finally settles them round his neck, curving up and into the other man’s heat so he can tangle fingers in his hair.

Jefferson whines, drops his hands to Alexander’s hips and drags him forwards, pressing him flush to his chest. The kiss is slow and sensual, until it’s not. Until the slight drag of coarse chest hair over the slim strip of skin exposed though Hamilton’s robe makes him whimper and shudder. That’s when Jefferson’s grip on his tightens, that’s when he growls low in his chest and starts shoving  Alexander back and back and _back_ until his knees clip the seat of the couch. They fall onto it and suddenly Jefferson’s hands are everywhere, sliding under his robe, working the fabric apart and slide his calloused palms across every new bit of skin he can find. They rove over Alexander’s chest, groping and touching  and caressing every inch of him, sliding up his neck and tangling his his hair briefly before descending once more, leaving his mouth to pick up where they left off.

Alexander let his legs fall open, moaning weakly as he cradles Jefferson’s head to his pulse and lets him lave open mouth kisses across his skin.

“I guess it is a good thing I didn’t decided to put on underwear.” he tries, voice coming out in hot, airy pants.

“Slut” Jefferson mumbles back. He then nips harshly at Alexander’s earlobe.

The little immigrant gasps and wriggling under him. “See, now that’s just not fair. Slut-shaming has become a debilitating subculture recently. It’s ridiculous that in a time of growing tolerance we still shame and repress people unjustly for expressing comfort with themselves, their bodies and their sexuality.”

Above him, Jefferson groans, pressing his forehead into the cradle of Alexander’s shoulder. “Is there anyway to shut you up?”

“That sounds like something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself.” Hamilton shoots back coying, easing his legs just a little wider.

If anyone asks where he was, he’ll  just tell them his shower was broken.


End file.
